Even Less to Live For
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "She had left a gaping hole in his chest, one he had never known she had filled." The night after Arietta's duel, Sync realizes a few things… a little too late. T for dark themes. I do not own Tales of the Abyss or the cover art.


_And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side  
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,  
In the sepulchre there by the sea,  
In her tomb by the sounding sea.  
**(**_**Annabel Lee_, Edgar Allan Poe__)_**

* * *

She was sleeping—that was all. Her eyes were closed peacefully, her hair brushed much more neatly than it ever had been before. She still wore the clothing she had been wearing earlier that day: black and pink and white, with splashes of crimson here and there. It was odd to think that just that morning, she had awakened and arranged that headdress on her head herself. Her heart had still been beating then, her chest yet rising and falling with every sob.

Sync smiled bitterly at the thought and traced her jaw, half-expecting her to shy away from his touch, but she lay still and silent as the shadows around them.

His smile became a grimace as he inhaled sharply in the beginnings of a sob. It was strange where his mind drew its limits; it didn't matter to Sync that she lay on a slab in the cathedral mortuary, or that her own blood stained her clothes, or that she had been reported to have lost her duel. It mattered that she did not react to his caress, one he had never bestowed to her in life.

Sync rose, glaring down at her corpse with his fists clenched. He had been angry for as long as he could remember, so much so that anything different was strange. Now, though, he was _furious_—at the world, at himself, at her. Why had she treated him like a human being, instead of a pawn like all the others? If she had just kept her mouth shut—if she had just listened to his rejections—if she had just—

"He was a _replica_!" he shouted at her body, voice ringing through the chilly darkness, and wished she would flinch at the volume. "He was only a replica, and you _died_ for him! You threw your life away for his sake—I'm a replica, too! I'm a replica of the Fon Master, _your_ Fon Master—" His voice cracked abruptly into silence, and he touched a hand clumsily to his face: it came away wet with tears.

Sync heaved a great, shuddering sigh, and removed his mask.

He had worn it for as long as he could remember, but always willingly—to protect her; the only thing he _could _do for her. He gave a short, harsh, broken laugh, and threw his mask to the floor with a clatter: the God-Generals had told him to keep his true identity concealed from her, but they could not have known that telling him to keep his distance from her was just as brutal as any of the other numerous cruelties the world had inflicted upon him.

Perhaps, if he had just allowed himself to _feel_—

"Sync?"

That was Largo's voice. He quieted his breathing abruptly, but refused to turn around to face him. He had been the one to mediate her battle, and perhaps that was for the best: Sync forced himself to think of how it would have gone had he been there to watch her fall. He might have stopped the fight out of fear for her life before that even happened, and destroyed all her trust in him. She had been ready to die, and he simply hadn't played a large enough part in her life to convince her to live.

_That_ was what truly hurt: his own reluctance to get close to anyone. He had always thought it was useless to make friends, knowing the world would tear them all away from him anyway. He hadn't anticipated that what would sting so much more than losing someone he let himself care about was thinking of what _could _have been between them, and never having shared any memories he could look back on.

"…It's three o'clock in the morning. Get some rest," said Largo impassively, and turned and walked away.

One more tear slipped down Sync's cheek: he brushed it away immediately, sniffling, annoyed with himself for allowing this kind of emotional breakdown. He tried to add her death to the expansive list of reasons he hated the world, but found that he was no longer angry. He had expended all his wrath through explaining to her, once and for all, the lie that she had been told for two whole years. Now, he was just… _empty_. She had left a gaping hole in his chest, one he had never known she had filled.

He noticed, for the first time, a golden tuning-fork pendant hanging around her neck, glimmering in the dim light. Anger flashed like lightning once more through the void that was now his heart, and he yanked it from around her neck forcefully, snapping the string that held it there. It was a reminder of her time with Ion, and as such, it should die with him.

Sync clenched it in his fist shakily; it was deathly cold at first, but quickly warmed to his touch, and his rage evaporated as quickly as it had seized him. Opening his hand and staring at the necklace, he closed his eyes after a short pause and tied it around his own neck. Now, it had become a memento of _her_, and not the replica whom she had so idolized. Sync slipped the warm pendant beneath his shirt and closed his eyes as if in prayer.

He knew there was nothing awaiting them beyond the abyss of death, no god listening to his thoughts, and the idea was strangely comforting. Eternal sleep, never having to wake to a world full of sin and savagery, was his most coveted desire. That, perhaps, was their greatest similarity. Sync was sure that even had she succeeded in avenging her beloved Fon Master, she would have killed herself afterwards. After Sync's own duties were complete and the Score was abolished, he would find a way to do the same.

_Sleep_. Sync suppressed a yawn; Largo had given his warning for a reason, though Sync had no doubt he would get little rest tonight either. She marked the first casualty among the God-Generals, and it had given the rest of them a sense of mortality for the first time. Even the most mature among them had maintained an arrogant sense of invincibility, at which Sync had always scoffed.

He wavered a little out of exhaustion, pressing the pendant against his chest through his shirt, and entertained for a moment the idea of an afterlife in the shape of the morgue around him. Did her spirit linger on in the darkness and silence? Did she wait for him, sitting in the shadows, or did she chase blindly after Ion even there?

Sighing heavily, knowing the answer already, Sync sat next to her on the slab, looking down at her with softness more characteristic of the seventh replica whom she had so adored than himself. "Arietta," he whispered, as though to gently awaken her; she didn't stir. He leaned down on an impulse and pressed a cautious kiss to her forehead.

It wasn't enough; it would never be enough. He imagined life returning to her in glowing vivacity through some miracle, and trailed his lips tremulously down to hers after a slight hesitation—a hollow echo of a fairytale kiss.

So _this _was what love felt like. Cold and lifeless.

Sync leaned his forehead against hers frustratedly, throat burning with unspilled tears, and sat up. He knew he should go up to his room, but… if icy stone was a good enough bed for her, it was good enough for him. He swung his legs up onto the table and rearranged himself carefully into horizontality, almost as though avoiding disturbing her.

Resting an exhausted head next to hers, chin barely touching her shoulder, his breath stirred her hair, granting the illusion of life. He slid his gloved hand along her slender waist, tracing the gashes in her clothes and skin with slow and deliberate fingers, and wondered whether this might have been something more to live for had he done it before her death. Now, it was too late.

"Good night, Arietta," he sighed, closing his eyes defeatedly.

_Good night, Sync, _her voice murmured in his head, the ghost of her last words to him, and he heard no more.


End file.
